Her breath stuttered, and her pulse kicked up like a small prey animal running from danger. It was an agony running into her former sisters. It didn’t happen often, blessedly, and on the rare occasion it did, she did her best to disappear into the scenery, taking her leave from the line or the shop or the farmstand as unobtrusively as possible. She did not recognize this crone, however, and her manners were too deeply instilled to keep walking, ignoring the old woman’s words.
“Authricia was my great-aunt,” she explained, hoping her voice wasn’t as stilted as it sounded in her head.
“Yes, yes, of course. You’re Laurel’s little one. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a coven meeting, but these old eyes remember you, dearie.”
Conversations like this could be a relief, sometimes. The old woman didn’t need her to join in, didn’t ask her opinion or seek to share gossip. She only wanted to reminisce about days long since passed, when Ladybug was very young, when her mother was still alive, and then later after she had come to live with Willow and Authricia. To relive the glory days of the past coven, and there was nothing Ladybug needed to say at all, other than nodding her head occasionally and offering anmhmto show she was listening.
While the old woman talked, Ladybug inspected her wares. She was selling culinary spellwork — love potion brownies, law of attraction wafers, and healing beverages — that looked a bit suspect to Ladybug’s expert (if she didn’t mind saying so to herself) eyes.
There were items for sale on the table that Ladybug herself made at home. The crone’s homemade lip ointments were overly waxy, and the bit of body butter she sampled left her hand feeling greasy. The woman was clearly handier with her culinary creations, but Ladybug couldn’t help but wonder how many of these patrons were shopping off her table, adding a pot of waxy lip conditioner to their brownies, completely unaware they were taking home such subpar offerings.
She bought a container of the body butter and a plastic clamshell of brownies for Anzan anyway, not wanting to be rude, bidding the old woman an awkward farewell.
“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, dearie. The day for lovers is right around the corner. St. Valentine’s celebration, Lupercalia, the Elvish Day of Hearts. Everyone will be looking for a little aphrodisiac to share with their special someone. I brew up a strawberry wine, bottled beneath last season’s strawberry moon with added effervescence and a very special ingredient.” Making a show of looking around, the old woman leaned in conspiratorially. “Every bottle contains five drops of Araneaen venom, incredibly potent . . . sustainably sourced, of course. Make sure you snatch yours up before they sell out!”
Her mouth dropped open. She could almost hear Authricia admonishing her that she was going to catch a fly that way.Araneaen venom?!It had never occurred to her to use Anzan’s venom in her spellwork.Five drops! You have it on tap!
“I-I’ll be sure to do so,” she stammered, hoping she wasn’t blushing too horribly, and if she was, that the old witch would assume she was scandalized. The old crone wasn’t in danger of selling out of anything, but Ladybug gave her what she hoped was a winsome smile all the same. “I’ll see you the next time I’m shopping!”
She rubbed her fingers together as she walked past a few other stalls of homemade beauty products, more soap vendors than she could count, a few here and there selling their own shampoo and deodorant. Her thumb and index finger slid together on the greasy residue of the body butter. She would need to wash her hands when she got home, she thought. The same way she would need to go home and apply real deodorant if she were to waste her money on one of those silly crystals the vendor on her left was selling. The shampoo she sniffed had a saccharine sweetness covering its medicinal core, while a lotion she had sampled had a whiff of artificial florals that smelled like a decade old potpourri.
You would be able to sell circles around some of these vendors. There’s no one here with your skill. No one who respects the craft the way you do, no one who could match you in quality.
She didn’t know where the voice came from. It certainly didn’t belong to her. Yet, somehow, it rattled through her head as if she herself had spoken the words aloud, and once the thought was placed there, Ladybug found she was unable to focus on anything else.
She already concocted her own shampoos and lotions, lip balms that softened and healed, creams that brightened the complexion, salves for burns and abrasions and a baby’s diaper rash. Even a stick that went on like a cream and dried to a powder finish, something she made for herself to slick onto her thighs on warm summer days to prevent chafing beneath her dress.
She crafted herbal steamers that could heal croup and coughs, medicinal crystals and soaks for sore muscles, all the things she made in her kitchen on a daily basis to fill her private orders. The items that overflowed her crowded shelves. Things she could make in her sleep.And that’s not even getting into magical aids or serious spellwork.
She had no need to buy the old crone’s dodgy love potion, for she could brew her own, more potent than any witch in Cambric Creek. After all, Araneaen venom was valuable for its anesthetic and aphrodisiac properties, and she had it on tap, right there in her attic.You would sell circles around these people without even trying.
By the time she got home, Ladybug could think of nothing else.
Anzan made enough money to support them both comfortably. He’d been worried over causing her offense, apologizing profusely when the overture was made. She’d understood. It was another cultural difference between them, and although she had demurred, she had understood where his heart was in offering.
“It is my job to ensure you are cared for, my Ladybug. That is the role of a mate. To see that you want for nothing. There is no need for you to work, not if you don’t want to.”
She could pack all of the overflow away, hang her work cauldron for the last time, and spend her days whiling away the hours, instead of sweating in her kitchen.
It is intent that guides magic, Ladybug. A witch’s intent is more important than the strength of her spell.She had chosen to be a healer, like her mother. To use her knowledge of herbs and plants and poisons to help people, in her own small way. To serve Cambric Creek, her family home, the community that became her home all those years ago. She was a Brackenbridge witch, and she could not be satisfied sitting back and allowing her skills to go unused, slack in her craft, exactly what they had accused her of when she’d been cast out of the circle.
“I appreciate that,” she’d told him seriously, allowing him to enfold her in his arms. “But what am I, if I’m not a witch? I can’t let all of my knowledge go to waste.”
The Makers’ Mart could be the solution she had been searching for. An answer to her problems, an excellent way to attract a wider clientele, to pass out her cards, and fatten her order queue.
Hook them with the beauty.That’s what Authricia used to tell the girls in advanced herbals. She could appeal to the vanity of the residents of Cambric Creek — soothing enzyme peels to help with molt, brightening serums, and exfoliators for the lizardfolk and nagas. Cleansing scrubs and clay masks for the trolls and orcs, who often had deep pore issues. Shampoos to promote thick, shiny hair, face masks made from botanicals she grew herself, deeply moisturizing body butter and lotions.
Then appeal to the family. Once they became her customers, she knew they would branch out. Diaper cream for the baby, a cough elixir for the school children. Temporary attractant lures for those teenagers looking for a date to the school dance.
The spellwork would follow. It always did. She had borne witness to more than one frantic neighbor banging on their door well after dark, sobbing after having caught their husband or lover with someone else, or a suffering with a workplace rival who made their daily existence a horror. Willow would read their cards or gaze into a scrying glass, as Authricia pulled together small sachets and totems, instructing her at the cauldron.
“And what do we use for banishment, Ladybug?”
Burdock and cumin, red pepper and caraway, an oil of holy thistle. She would never forget all that she had been taught. She could hook them with beauty, move on to their ailments, and then wait for the requests for real magic. All she needed was a table at the Makers’ Mart.
There was only one problem she could foresee.
Ladybug dropped into a chair, letting her forehead thunk against the table.Shewas the problem. She would need to talk to people, to draw them in, to convince them to stop at her little table in the first place. She’d never been very good with people, and her lack of skill would keep this tiny flame of an idea from catching. It seemed too big a step, requiring a confidence and an ability to interact with the public that she had never a single day in her life possessed . . . but she badly wanted to try.
